Chains That Bind Us
by AngelT
Summary: A collection of random one-shots about Arthas Menethil, Jaina Proudmoore,Sylvanas Windrunner and, possibly, own characters. Each one has skeletons in the closet but 'he' connects them all whether they want it or not. Rated T just to be on the safe side.


_Author's Note:_ Hi there! This is a part of a 'fic-a-vember' project me and my friends had decided to do. Since all of us had unfinished fics, or fics floating around but never making it to the paper we decided to do this event: till the end of November to write and, hopefully, finish at least one is part one of three. I know, it is very short but I've never had much love for long chapters and I've noticed, the longer story drags on, the more difficult it is to finish it. Usually I try to make my chapters 1000-1500 words long. But sometimes the chapter does not want that, haha. Anyway! I call artistic freedom on any inconsistencies with lore I might have made :P Your comments, suggestions, and even prompts are welcome(as it is sort of a short story compilation in the first place) I had no beta and I am not a native speaker. Hopefully the story does not sound weird because of that .

Cheers all, hope you'll enjoy my writing.

AngelT

**The Golden Prince**

The darkness and the mist would never disappear and he knew it. Then why he kept pressing on? There was no starting point and no final destination; the plain of existence that was the Frostmourne did not have a beginning or an end. Within itself it bore only cold and darkness. A void filled with hundreds of them. All those who had fallen, their spirits claimed by the icy wraith of the blade.

Arthas watched them, creatures of all races and heritages, wandering aimlessly and wailing in the gloomy twilight. They knew they were dead but they could not understand why their gods had forsaken them, denied the right for eternal bliss. At first, at the very beginning, he tried to reach out to them. To explain. Perhaps the knowledge would ease their agony. But how would he approach them when the only thing they'd see would be a face of a murderer? There was no answer but he had to see this through, at least for the sake of his own sanity. Or whatever was left of it.

From the very depth of his being the pain and desperation kept pouring into the nothingness, unable to find an outlet. No-one ever heard him, Arthas was invisible to everyone around him; no doubt yet another trick the wicked blade had played on the young prince for its own twisted pleasure.

He was forced to watch through the eyes of the abomination he had become. Every time the blade had slayed yet another innocent he felt the dull echo of the pain he had once experienced while looking in the eyes of children as he was destroying their homes, killing their parents, brothers and sisters. Killing them. In Stratholme. The wound had never healed. It throbbed with every new atrocity he had committed even in his own death. But he had learned to live with it.

However it had not always been like that. When_ 'Arthas'_ had murdered his father in cold blood the prince had screamed. And he had been screaming for so long he'd thought he'll collapse. And this is when king Terenas came to him from the mist. Arthas remembered falling on his knees, his hands desperately trying to catch his father's mantle and going right through it. He begged his father for forgiveness, for everything he had ever done wrong as tears were rolling down his cheeks. But the king had just passed through him, unable to hear his son's plead, his face a mask of sorrow. Remembering this now Arthas though that it, perhaps, was nothing but a wishful thinking. He didn't know what he was, whether he could feel or express emotions. He though he felt something, but did he really? Or perhaps it was just desperate grasping for the pitiful remains of humanity he imagined he had left.

His father was the first of the many. Arthas tried vigorously to burn their faces in his memory as a reminder and a personal cross to bear but soon enough they have blurred into a single stream. Too many, too often.

That other time it was a woman, high elf. Arthas had recalled her glowing figure stepping out of the emptiness, her features gentle, beautiful and calm._ 'He'_ called her Sylvanas Windrunner. _'He'_ tormented her, subjecting the fragile elf to the horrors beyond the imagination of even the most sick and twisted men.

She thought she was free, Arthas could see it in her face. A moment before her whole being got distorted and had left this place in the whirlwind of black flames, their glances had locked. She was the only one to ever notice him: a stupid boy that wished too much. Sylvanas wanted to say something, Arthas saw it. Was she going to blame him like the rest of them? Would she try to understand? Or pity the stubborn fool that dug his own grave and doomed the people he cared so much for?

And just like that she was gone while Arthas had no choice but to witness how the only person that could ever bring him some sort of closure had risen to serve her new liege.

But for now the King of Liches slept, gathering his might, ready to strike against Azeroth at his wake. And so did Arthas. He pressed on forward in the darkness, struggling against the mist that felt more like thick cotton then vapour to him now. There should be something in the end…

Something… someone… The one who stood besides him till the very last moment, the one he hurt so much when he thought she was the one hurting him. Through all this years in this prison she was his guiding star, the last piece of an old life he had refused let go. He had time to think, there was no choice but to think, every event playing over and over in front of his eyes. Arthas did not know if it was Frostmourne's doing or his own guilt made him relive those memories. What had happened in those days was not important anymore, he could not change it. But her face, those big blue eyes widened in horror and disbelief… His actions wounded her, his words even more so. But back then he did not see it, blinded by the feeling of being betrayed by everyone he thought he could rely on. He thought his path was right and that the end justifies the means. She though she could save them all. They will never know whose way was the best but he had no right to lash at her like that, Arthas saw it now.

The King of Liches slept and Arthas Menethil walked onwards. There must be something in the end of the tunnel. The Light. And in that light, reflecting from her golden hair, she will be waiting and he will be free.


End file.
